


May We Meet Again

by chancellorclarke



Series: Where You Go, I'll Follow [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/F, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4328379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chancellorclarke/pseuds/chancellorclarke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s moments like these that make her think her body’s telling her she's missing something. But she doesn’t know what, and she doesn’t remember why, and she doesn’t know how to get it back.</p><p>Reincarnation AU. Set after 4x11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May We Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

> A repost for archival purposes. I rewrote a lot of this fic. Oh my lord. It was a mess before.
> 
> I intend on writing out how their lives played out—not just their first. Hopefully I’ll get around to it, but for now, the universe ends with the current three in the series.

 

 

_“I love you forever. I am sorry I cannot love you now.”_

_(Angelmaker - Nick Harkaway)_

 

 

*

 

 

“Have mercy on me, please!”

The man beneath her pleads desperately, shaking out of fear, of death—of her. Shaw aims her pistol at his kneecap, and shoots out of irritation. He cries out in pain, tears forming in his eyes, but doesn’t dare say anything else.

He’d set off five bombs in two New York malls, killing forty, and wounding more. He’d murdered innocent people who deserved more, who deserved a living present.

She looks down at him again, hears him whimper, holding back choked sobs.

He doesn’t deserve mercy.

Cole glances at her. Though he knows what she’ll say, he still asks:

“Should we let him live, Shaw?”

She clenches her jaw tightly, and raises her gun, leveling it to the man’s head.

“No.”

Shaw pulls the trigger, the boom of the pistol echoing the finality of her decision.

Shaw’s never believed in second chances. The first time should be enough. To get it right, or not at all. Second chances only repeat the same decisions, the same mistakes—it shuffles the deck, but in the end, it doesn’t change a single thing.

Those who believe in second chances are hopelessly hopeful.

The repeat beginnings. 

The tragic endings.

Shaw vows to herself to never become one of them.

 

 

*

 

 

It hits her at odd times.

  1.      When she notices a pair of brown eyes at a bar, feels as though she’s seen them before, even when she knows she hasn’t.
  2.      When she sees a crooked smirk as she walks down the street and suddenly feels a hollowness in her chest, as though she’s lost something she’s never had a chance to keep.
  3.      When she brings home a one-night stand back to her apartment and they moan her name as an exhale—not Shaw, but _Sameen—_ she tenses out of reflex, like they sound foreign to her ears. As though those words were meant to be said by someone else.



It’s moments like these that make her think her body’s telling her she’s missing something. But she doesn’t know what, and she doesn’t remember why, and she doesn’t know how to get it back.

 

 

*

 

 

She downs another glass of scotch.

 

 

*

 

“Who’s the new admit?”

“Patient’s name, Samantha Groves. Room 14. She suffers from head trauma and multiple fractures from a four-story fall. Her vitals have been stabilized.” The nurse hands off the medical chart to Shaw. “We’re unsure if she’s suicidal, but multiple bullet wounds and faded scars on her abdomen which weren’t sustained from the fall indicate that she is.”

Shaw hums in acknowledgement, looking through Root’s medical history. After skimming for what she needs, she walks to Room 14 and through the doors.

Her head down on the clipboard, she pulls the hospital curtains away and calls:

“Samantha Groves.”

Shaw flips through the medical chart. “I've assessed the damages on your body from the fall. It seems that you’ve broken your left arm and four of your ribs. However, there are other wounds on your body that have never properly healed.” She looks up Root then. “Would you like those looked at as well?"

For a long moment, her patient doesn’t speak, just stares at her. Stares at Shaw like she's trying to memorize every aspect of her face, her cheekbones, her jawline, her eyes—as though she’s been waiting her entire life to see her and hear the sound of her voice and she simply doesn't want to forget.

Shaw scrunches her face in confusion, and almost instantly, the expression on Root’s face is gone, replaced by an overwhelming dullness in her eyes. She eventually gives her a weak smile, shaking her head.

“Thank you, but no,” Root croaks.

Shaw quirks an eyebrow. “You’ve got some sort of death wish?”

Root smiles again, the sadness in her eyes more apparent. It washes over the rest of her features like drizzle to rain.

“Something like that,” Root answers vaguely.

Shaw takes out a pen from her coat pocket, makes a note of the comment on the chart.

“Care to explain?” 

“I don’t seek out death, but—” Root pauses for a moment, mulls over the thoughts in her head.

“I don’t mind it either. The idea of my life ending,” Root finishes. It’s then that she shrugs as though she’s given up, sinking deeper into her bed. “Most of the time it just feels like I’m waiting."

“For?” Shaw prompts.

Something in Root’s eyes shifts. She looks at Shaw like she knows something Shaw doesn’t, as though she’s looking right through her. Shaw narrows her eyes, wonders what Root’s thinking. She doesn’t need to ask, though, because after a moment, Root gives her a humorless smile, and answers:

“To meet someone I’ve lost.”

Root looks away then, and closes her eyes. She doesn't say anymore. Shaw doesn't prod her.

As Shaw signs off on her chart, she wonders what exactly Root's lived through, for her to be this way.

 

 

*

 

She means to shoot Root right in her coronary artery. 

She means to. After all, Root had bounded her to her chair, tried to torture her with an iron, tried to maim her—had made her lose her only lead in finding who had put the hit on Cole and end his life in cold blood.

But as she takes aim at Root, as she's about to pull the trigger, she notices three things:

  1.      the resigned hopelessness in her eyes
  2.      the anguish marring her features like a permanent fixture
  3.      the betrayal in the quakes of her choked sobs



Shaw sees all of this and the one thought that runs through her mind is that maybe—

Maybe she’s not alone.

 

 

*

 

 

She shoots Root 5 millimeters to the right, missing her main artery.

 

 

*

 

“Harder, Shaw.”

She chuckles lowly, before pushing three fingers into her, agonizingly slow. It’s the third night this week she’s been with this girl. Brown-haired, brown eyed. Tall. Thin. A good lay, a screamer.

The woman beneath her juts her hips upward, impatient.

“You want it?” Shaw husks teasingly, still not increasing her pace.

The woman beneath her nods nods eagerly. “I need it,” she breathes, biting her bottom lip. “I need you.”

Shaw freezes, her fingers still inside the woman.

The woman looks at her strangely, confused as to why Shaw stopped, but all Shaw sees is the face of someone else’s—a teasing smirk, a pair of warm dark eyes. Familiar. So, so familiar.

“Shaw?”

Shaw blinks, and just like that, the familiar face she saw is gone, replaced by the current woman below her. She ignores the ache in her chest, leans down and bites harshly on the girl’s neck, feeling the vibrations of her groan against her lips.

It’s nothing, Shaw tries to convince herself, thrusting harder into the girl.

It’s nothing.

 

 

*

 

Shaw diagnosed herself with Axis 2 Personality Disorder, years ago. Its symptoms include impulsiveness, irritability, disregard for social norms, lack of remorse, inability to feel emotions.

Shaw knows this—knows it like the back of her hand.

So why is it when Root says her name—not Shaw, but _Sameen_ — warmth rushes through her chest, soft and comforting and familiar?

Why is it that with every passing mission, Shaw feels an overwhelming sense of fear hover over her shoulder, a maddening fear of death—not her own end, but someone else’s.

She looks up at Root.

She shouldn’t be able to feel these things.

 

 

*

 

 

But she _is._

 

 

*

 

“I love you,” Shaw whispers on Root’s neck, pushing two fingers into her.

She hears Root groan, feels her nod, but doesn’t hear her say the words back. Shaw knows what she’ll find, but still she pulls her head back to look at Root’s face:

Her eyes are shut, her eyebrows are furrowed. She’s biting her own bottom lip—painfully so. Hard enough to draw blood. Root looks as though she’s desperately fighting not to say the words crawling up her throat, like it’d somehow cause her more pain if she does.

As though loving Shaw _hurts._

Shaw leans down and kisses down Root’s navel, leaving a trail of bites marks along the way.

She wishes she knew how to make the pain stop.

Shaw thrusts into Root faster, her other hand trailing down Root’s stomach. She lets out a strangled moan, arching her hips towards Shaw’s hand, begs her harder. She complies, feels the muscles flutter around her fingers and knows that Root’s close.

Shaw kisses her neck softly when she comes.

For now, this is the best she can do.

 

 

*

 

It’s eleven at night. There’s a full moon tonight. Root’s heart is beating at approximately 85 beats per minute, though from the way Root’s breath is slowing against her collarbone, it’s likely to decrease. In exactly two hours and fifteen minutes, her alarm will go off. Root will groan at the sound it makes and push it off the table out of annoyance, partly because she hates waking up early, but mostly because she hates that they have to leave the bed. Root will burrow closer to Shaw, hold her captive with an arm wrapped tightly around her waist. Shaw will relent and stay in bed for exactly twenty minutes, lingering in the feel of Root’s body against her own, until Finch calls her at six. Root will tell her not to go, Shaw will reassure her she won’t, but they both know that she will anyway.

These are the things that Shaw knows. These are the things that she remembers.

But tonight, as she’s laying here with Root—her head on Shaw’s chest—what floods her thoughts are questions on Root has confessed to her: Of all the lives Shaw’s lived, of all the times they’ve spent together, and of all the times that they never found each other.

This is what runs rampant through her mind, and Shaw can’t get them out of her head.

Nagging, maddening. Incessant.

Restless.

She has to know. She needs to know.

“How many lives has it been?”

The air suddenly shifts in her apartment—weighted and heavy—and Shaw holds her breath for what Root’s answer will be.

“Seventy five,” Root whispers quietly. 

Shaw hums, tries to keep her expression neutral as she runs her fingers through Root's hair.

“How many do you see me in?”

She feels Root’s hand tighten around her waist, burrowing herself deeper into Shaw. It’s not a reaction that Shaw expects, and it’s then that she briefly wonders if Root hears the words she’s left unspoken, if Root knows what she's really trying to ask.

_(How many times have I walked away?)_

Finally, Root admits:

“Twenty two.”

Shaw feels the inside of her chest tighten painfully, though she tries not to show it. Root leans back to look at her, a worried expression on her face, and Shaw wants to look away.

Root deserves so much more than this—she deserves so much better than _her_.

“Do I ever love you in them?”

_(Do I ever stay?)_

Root gives her a broken smile, then a half-hearted shrug.

“Sometimes.”

At that, Shaw pushes herself up and kisses her, soft and persistent. For all the times when she couldn’t, and for all the times that she didn’t. Shaw kisses her, hopes that for once, she'll remember this moment—that if nothing else, she'll commit this to memory, long after she's gone.

She pulls away after a long moment, her chest heaving, and looks into Root's brown eyes. They’re resigned—broken, almost—and even though Shaw knows the answer to her next question, she still finds herself asking:

“Did you ever love me in them?”

Root nods without hesitation, leans down to kiss her deeply, urgently—like it might be the last. Shaw melts against her lips, laying back down on the bed. She tastes bitterness on the tip of her tongue.

“Always,” Root murmurs. “Always.”

Shaw wishes Root didn’t, but knows that she won't mean it.

 

 

*

 

 

“Why didn’t you shoot her?”

Shaw doesn’t turn around, continues washing Root’s blood off her hands from carrying her to the psychiatric hospital. She knows what Reese is asking. Why hadn’t killed Root for all she’s done, for retribution of all the innocent lives she’s taken—why had Shaw grant Root a reprieve?

Shaw turns off the faucet, wipes her hands on a towel.

“Finch told us not to kill,” Shaw says simply.

“You never listen to Finch,” he points out. “So why didn't you shoot her?”

She could deny it, say that it was a fluke. That she simply missed her mark and that she really had intended on killing Root. She could lie and give a simple explanation, and this conversation would be over and done with.

But she doesn’t. What she finds is the truth spilling from her lips, hears these words fall out of her mouth:

“Maybe what Root needs is a second chance.”

Shaw sees Reese’s expression shift on the mirror—a knowing look on his face—and immediately regrets having said too much. She turns towards the door, tries to walk past Reese before he has a chance to say anything, but moves in front of her, standing in her way.

“Maybe you both do,” Reese says quietly—earnestly. He offers her a small smile, before turning around and leaving. She hears his footsteps echo down the stairs as he does.

Shaw stands in the bathroom alone, closing her eyes as Reese’s words swirl in her head.

 

 

*

 

 

Maybe they do, Shaw thinks to herself.

 

Maybe they do.

 

 

 


End file.
